The Bicycle
by childxofxdeath
Summary: When Holmes is hurt, Watson must leave his friend in the care of a most unsavory woman and catch the crook on his own! Wrote this for Crime, Law and Literature Class. Story much better than description. Not slash


It was the third day of June and Holmes had the fire burning. I knew he liked to stare into the flames as he deduced things, but it was becoming unbearably hot; the windows were shut tight to any breeze and Holmes moved to throw another log on the fire. I grunted in disgust and threw the far window open, overlooking Baker Street. People bustled by below and I leaned my head out to feel the not yet humid summer air, breathing in something besides tobacco and fire.

"Watson," Holmes said calmly, still staring at the roaring fire, "you've distracted me. I need to focus on this case." Presently, Holmes was focused on the case of Officer Steven B. Dodds. Dodds had made the mistake of stopping our villain on the street for driving his carriage recklessly. He was promptly shot by the unknown driver of this carriage. Luckily, Holmes seemed to have some idea of the criminal's actions and was simply trying to determine the best place to head him off. As the fire died down we sat in silence, waiting for Holmes to be inspired. I looked at my pocket watch; it was almost time to meet Mary.

Suddenly, Holmes sprung from his armchair and began pacing and mumbling to himself. I watched him with some amusement before rising myself and stretching. I thought it best not to disturb his thought process but as I approached the door he called out to me.

"Watson? Where are you going? I am so close to catching our man!" he said, throwing me an accusatory look. I did feel bad for leaving, but I couldn't afford to leave Mary waiting on me again.

"I must go meet Mary, Holmes," I said, waiting for the rude remarks. I was not disappointed.

"Ah yes," he said, turning back into the study. "Let me know when you can come back out to play."

"You know where to find me if you need me Holmes." And with that I left, taking one last look at my pensive friend.

I was sitting in my room a good time after my assignation with Mary and reading a book. All had gone well; Holmes had not interrupted our evening and Mary was so pleased, chattering on about the upcoming wedding. I heard footsteps thudding heavily up the steps and I smiled. Holmes had been out when I came home and I wanted to catch him before he went to bed and hear the details of the case. Instead of going to the study as I expected him to however, I found a very flustered Inspector Lestrade practically banging down my bedroom door.

"Whatever is the matter Inspector?" I asked a little flustered, and rightly so. He should have the sense to know that this was far too late to be calling on someone. His expression of horror softened my voice.

"What has happened?" I asked.

"It's Holmes sir," he said shakily. "He needs your immediate assistance; he's been hurt badly." My blood ran cold as I gathered my medical supplies and followed Lestrade down the stairs and into the sitting room. What I saw locked my limbs; my mind screamed for action but I could not seem to move. A couple of policemen had Holmes laid out on the couch, staining Mrs. Hudson's clean white cushions. There was blood seeping from his shoulder and he was covered in sweat, his eyes wide and frantic. They settled on me and he calmed visibly.

"Watson my good man," he said. "So sorry you had to miss this one. But I got it! I know what he looks like." I nodded as I willed myself to move and knelt down beside him. My kingdom for a proper operating table. His shirt clung to the gaping wound in his shoulder and I pulled a scalpel from my kit. His eyes widened.

"Relax Holmes," I said calmly, putting on the "nothing's wrong" doctor façade I use with so many patients. "I'm just getting your shirt out of the way."

"If I had a pound for every time a woman has said that to me-"

"Hush now Holmes," I said. "I have to do this carefully." I was nervous. It was one thing to operate on a stranger but Holmes was my best friend. One slip up could prove disastrous. I began cutting away the ripped fabric near the wound and took a deep breath. There was a bullet lodged in Holmes' shoulder. My brain went fuzzy and I shook my head to clear the haze, trying to convince myself to treat this as any other operation. I looked up at the three policemen standing by.

"You," I said, pointing at the one nearest the kitchen. "Run a cloth under tepid water and ring it out. Then bring it here." He ran off. I looked at the other man who had accompanied Holmes. "Get some rubbing alcohol from the upstairs lavatory." He went to find it. I took my surgical forceps out and quickly found the bullet forceps. I acquired a small cotton pad from a pack inside the kit and waited. The officer with the towel came back first.

"Fold it into a rectangle and put it on his head," I directed. The officer did this clumsily, obviously nervous, but it would get the job done. If Holmes had a fever, it was important to keep it down and prevent it from damaging his brilliant mind. The second officer hurried back down the stairs and handed me the alcohol. I applied a small amount to the cotton pad and looked at Holmes. He had his eyes closed but the towel was helping to stop him from sweating.

"Holmes?" He opened one eye. "This may hurt a bit," I warned. He nodded and shut his eye again, squeezing them both tightly together in anticipation. I dabbed at the open wound as gently as possible but Holmes took in a sharp breath through gritted teeth. He'd fought many men before, but I'd never seen him wounded so badly. I made quick work of cleaning the wound. Then, I sterilized the bullet forceps.

"Now this," I said weakly "is really going to hurt. Let me know if you need me to stop."

"Better to just get it over with in one shot," Holmes replied. "Get it Watson? One shot. Because it's a bullet." I rolled my eyes although he could not see me and directed Lestrade to hold his good shoulder down. Holmes yelped as I inserted the forceps and I tried desperately to be gentle. I found that this would only prolong his pain as the bullet had hardly budged. I wiggled the forceps slightly to make sure the bullet was in one piece and then began sliding it out, making sure to avoid any main arteries. Once it was out, the wound hardly looked as bad as I had expected. The bullet hadn't lodged too deeply and it had completely missed the jugular. I took out some gauze and applied pressure to the wound.

"Do you think you can sit up Holmes?" I did not want to overexert him. He needed rest. He nodded and I helped him sit. "I just have to get the rest of your shirt off to apply the bandages." He opened his mouth to say something witty but I cut him off. "Don't start," I said and he smiled, though at the time it looked more like a grimace. I removed his shirt and wrapped the bandage tightly around the wound. Then I had him lay back down, considering the best way to get him to his room.

A slender hand flipped the towel on Holmes' brow, keeping the cool side pressed to his forehead. I followed the pale skinned arm up to stare into the face of Irene Adler. I must have looked shocked because she smirked and kept her eyes trained on mine. She always tried to make me feel uncomfortable, and I tried my best to never let her know her glare fazed me. Leave it to Holmes to fall in love with a criminal. She was the only one to ever beat him.

"Why don't you have the officers carry him up Watson?" she asked sweetly. I hated that she knew my thoughts. Instead I smiled.

"Capitol idea Ms. Adler. Inspector Lestrade, would you mind?"

"Not at all Watson," he replied. Then he turned to his men. "Alright, take him under the arms and help him up then." The officers complied. Slowly, Holmes made his way over to the stairs, clutching the policemen for support. They took the stair case on step at a time and I cringed as the less than careful officers jostled Holmes about and stumbled clumsily. I should have liked to help him up myself to ensure his bandages stayed in place, but my bad leg prevented me from doing so. Instead, Irene, Lestrade and I followed the officers up the stairs and I directed them into Holmes' room. Irene went in ahead to turn down the bedclothes and the officers lowered Holmes into the bed. He sighed and shut his eyes; the trip up the stairs had put him out.

"Holmes said he knew what the man looks like. Did he describe him to you Inspector?" I asked.

"Yes," drawled Lestrade. "He had long blonde hair and was tall and of average build, dirty, and had a crazy looking smile." I nodded.

"Anything else we can do, sir?" Even as he asked, Lestrade seemed to be shifting towards the door, eager to get back to Scotland Yard.

"That should be all, gentlemen," I said. "Thank you for all your help." Lestrade nodded and motioned for the other two officers to follow him out of the room, leaving me with a sleeping Holmes, a considerable clean up and a certain dangerous woman to deal with. I walked over to the bed to examine my friend. The bandages had survived the journey and he had not yet begun to bleed through. I sighed and sat in the chair by the window, not even bothering to acknowledge Irene Adler. The gauze would hold strong but I could not afford to leave Holmes by himself for long periods of time. The wound would have to be cleaned. The bandages would have to be changed. Still, I could not leave the matter of catching this criminal to Lestrade and his goons. I took another look at Holmes. I did not want this man simply caught; I wanted to catch him myself. But there was still the problem of leaving Holmes on his own. It was unsafe.

Irene cleared her throat. I looked up at her wearily and waited for her to say it. We both knew she was going to.

"I could stay here Watson," she said. "I could watch after him." I looked out the window again and considered it. I would much rather leave the job to Mrs. Hudson, but I knew how much animosity Holmes had towards her. It was better to leave him with someone he was comfortable around; someone he would not struggle against. And he couldn't fight with Irene. He always lost. I stood and looked at her.

"I must clean up in the sitting room. I will come back up here before I depart. Call for me if he wakes," I said, and turned away. She nodded and pulled the window chair over to Holmes' bedside, taking his hand. I suddenly felt sick, but could not put a finger on why.

The sitting room looked comically calm for what had happened there. Only the couch was destroyed, and honestly, it had been time for a new one anyway. I walked over to the coffee table and took up the forceps, the bullet still clamped in its teeth. I looked at it closely, but did not recognize the make. I carefully wrapped it in a spare tissue from the kit and discarded it. Then I cleaned the forceps with the alcohol, making sure to remove all the blood from them. After replacing the rest of the tools I'd taken out in haste, I took another look around the sitting room. Feeling content with the small amount of damage control I'd done, I made my way back upstairs, stopping momentarily in my room to put the kit back.

When I returned to Holmes' room, Irene was wringing out the towel with fresh water from the wash basin. She leaned in the doorway that connected Holmes' room to the study and watched me. I checked the detective's pulse, which was steady and glanced at my pocket watch. It was a quarter past nine in the evening. I still had a long night ahead of me. Realizing that I could put it off no longer, I addressed Irene.

"Send for me if anything goes wrong," I commanded. She nodded and held off on sarcastic comments, perhaps sensing the seriousness of the situation. I turned begrudgingly and walked to the doorway.

"John," she said softly. I stopped but did not turn around. "I won't hurt him," she said. _You already have_, I thought but said nothing. Instead I lingered a moment longer before moving as quickly as I could down the staircase.

Between Lestrade and Holmes, I was almost completely updated on the case. As I walked down Baker Street I roughly sketched our man on a spare piece of notepaper. Although the description Lestrade had given me was rather vague, I had a fairly good idea of who the culprit was. A month or so before Holmes had gotten himself caught up in this case, we were visited by a very distressed young lady by the name of Margret Huxley. She claimed to have been assaulted by a man of this same description. Now, certainly any man in London could have fit the description, but she and Lestrade, and apparently Holmes had all said the same thing about him. While he was attacking, he wore a crazed smile. Holmes had brushed by Miss Huxley's case, saying to her it would be impossible to find a man with such little evidence but later confessing to me that the case was hardly a case at all. He'd deemed it too boring. _The opponent,_ he said to me, _would be far too easy to catch, Watson._ It seems now only fair that the one case Holmes did not take was the one coming back to bite him. _Or shoot him_, I thought. I shivered and turned my collar up against the wind.

I arrived at Miss Huxley's small apartment on Aaron Lane and knocked on the door. When she answered, Miss Huxley looked surprised but pleased to see me. She asked me to come in and I stepped into the living room, shaking off my overcoat.

"Won't you sit down Dr. Watson?" she offered.

"Thank you," I said, taking the seat nearest the door. She sat across from me and waited patiently. For a moment I said nothing; I was too consumed with my thoughts. Finally she cleared her throat.

"Not that I mind the visit Dr. Watson but is there any particular reason why you are here?" she inquired. I smiled.

"Yes, I'm sorry. I was just thinking." I noted that Holmes must feel this way all the time but let the thought move on. "I have come to inquire about the case you brought to Detective Holmes' attention in early May," I said.

"Ah, yes," she said, shifting in her seat. "What would you like to know?"

"Well Miss Huxley," I began, "I believe that the same man who assaulted you a month ago may be on the loose, tormenting the rest of London. I suspect him to be the man who shot Officer Dodds. Did you hear about that?" I asked.

"Yes, I knew Officer Dodds rather well," she said quietly. She sat silently for a moment and then continued on with new passion. "I will do all I can to help you catch the man who shot him."

"Excellent," I said. "Why don't we start by going over what happened to you last month?"

"Certainly," she said. "I was coming home from the market on Callow Street and had just turned the corner onto Winchester Drive when the cabbage I'd bought for supper rolled out of the top of my bag. Well," she continued, "I assumed it would still be edible so I bent to pick it up, and then suddenly I was shoved from behind. Naturally I thought some careless child had run into me and I looked up to tell him to mind where he was going, but instead of a child's face I was met by a rather ghastly looking man." I pulled out my sketch.

"Does this look like the man who pushed you?" I handed her the picture.

"Oh my, Dr. Watson! I didn't know you were an artist," she said.

"In a past life," I joked. She chuckled.

"This looks almost exactly like him," she said. Her eyes glazed over as she remembered the event.

"So he pushed you from behind," I prompted. "Then what happened?"

"Well, I began to ask him just what he thought he was doing, but before I could say anything he hauled me up and slapped me across the face. He just kept hitting me. I didn't know what to do; I couldn't even scream. I was back on the ground when I saw the front of a bicycle drop to the curb beside me. The front wheel was red. I did not get a good look at its rider, but I know enough to tell that it was she who robbed me. She took all my money and even some of the groceries!"

"You keep referring to this person as she, although you claim to have not had a good look at her. Are you sure it was a woman who robbed you?"

"Oh yes," she nodded, "I am positive. She was wearing a deep blue dress. I simply did not get to see her face before she rode off on the bicycle. I was too focused on the man who'd beaten me, but he fled before any help came. The street was empty at the time."

"What time would you say that was, ma'am?" I asked.

"I'd wager that it was about five in the afternoon. It does seem odd that we were alone on the street, but hardly anyone is ever on Winchester past three. It has no homes on it," she speculated. I smiled and stood.

"Thank you Miss Huxley," I said. "What you have just told me may prove invaluable." She smiled and showed me to the door.

"Let me know you are in any need of further assistance, good doctor," she said. I tipped my hat and pulled my overcoat tightly around myself against the unseasonably cool night air. I walked a block and a half until I came to Winchester Drive and found that Miss Huxley had been right. Although Winchester was not a main road, there were no houses upon it. There was a small drug shop that closed at four and a bookstore that was not open on Sunday; the day Miss Huxley had been attacked. It was a short block, hardly long enough to be considered more than an alleyway, and the two shops plus a few abandoned apartments occupied its sidewalks. It was the perfect place to hide an attack. I bustled home to Baker Street, hoping to catch Holmes awake. I did not want to disturb his rest, but I needed his help.

As soon as I walked in the door, I was met by a flustered Mrs. Hudson.

"Dr. Watson! What in Heaven's name has happened to my couch?" she exclaimed. I was surprised that Irene had not explained the situation to our poor landlady.

"Holmes was badly wounded, Mrs. Hudson," I said soothingly. "Those boorish policemen hadn't the good sense to recognize that a little blood may ruin a white couch." She paled a bit at that.

"Is he okay?" she asked.

"He should be fine now; he is under the good care of Miss Irene Adler. I fixed him up the best I could and left him with her. Have you not been up to his room yet?" I asked. It was unusual for Mrs. Hudson to forget to bring Holmes his evening tea.

"No," she sighed, "I've only just gotten home. I went to Surrey for a family gathering. I told Mr. Holmes I was leaving, but he must have forgotten to tell you."

"Ah well, you know how he can be. I promise to buy you a new couch just as soon as I finish with this case. Now if you'll please excuse me Mrs. Hudson, I must go check on the detective." She nodded, apparently placated with the thought of a new couch for her sitting room.

I went directly to Holmes' room and walked in, not even bothering to knock. I wanted his deductions of course, but I also wanted to be sure Irene had not messed with his bandages. Presently, I found her reapplying gauze to the wound in Holmes' shoulder.

"Careful!" I said. I knew I had left her to do such things but I did not trust her completely. "Did you clean it first?"

"Of course I cleaned it Dr. Watson. You underestimate me," she pouted. I snorted, letting her know that her faux charm would not work on me. Then I went to Holmes. He looked tired, but was over all a right sight better than when I had last seen him. Placing a hand on his forehead I found that he no longer had any fever at all and some of the natural pigment was returning to his cheeks.

"Watson, my good man, where have you been all night?" he asked. "Irene obviously knew where you'd been, but refused to tell me in case I tried to follow you. Now this means, of course, that you've been working on the Dodds case, but I am interested to know where your thoughts have led you."

"Glad to hear it Holmes," I said, "because I cannot possibly work this out on my own. I went to Miss Margret Huxley's house. You remember her don't you?"

"Ah yes," he said, thinking back to a month before. "She'd been assaulted on the ninth of May. We did not take that particular case. I am assuming that you went to her based on our probable descriptions of the same man, am I correct?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"The two match up Holmes, you cannot deny it." He huffed but gave no rebuttal. I took this as a sign to continue. I relayed to him everything Miss Huxley had explained to me, save for the fact that our crook had an accomplice; it was going to be difficult enough to keep Holmes off the street without him feeling as though I was outnumbered. I watched as the gears began turning in my friend's head. He considered all I'd said and then looked at me with nothing less than glee in his eyes.

"Well, seeing as I was shot on Durham Street at six o'clock this evening and Officer Steven Dodds was shot on Alabaster Drive at six thirty, it is safe to assume that our criminal targets his victims between five and seven o'clock in the evening, usually on Fridays and over the weekend, and always near an unusually small side street with no housing and limited stores. All three of these crimes were committed in the same general area; between Bergen Street and Lancaster Avenue," he finished proudly. I grinned. The area between Bergen and Lancaster was an eight block expanse, and it would be easy to spot Dodds' murderer, especially with the streets being so empty. It was a Friday, which meant that if Holmes' deductions were correct, which they usually were, our man would strike again the very next day.

"I shall go there tomorrow at five o'clock," I decided. Then I looked at Irene. "Will you be able to provide your services again?" I asked.

"What are you talking about Watson?" Holmes interrupted. "I shall be going with you."

"No you shall not," I said firmly. Although I would surely want his quick thinking skills for when I spotted the criminal, I simply could not allow him out of bed yet. He still looked exhausted. "You will be no help to me if you start sleeping on the job. Besides, too much movement will hurt that shoulder." He opened his mouth to protest but I cut him off. "I do not want to hear another word about it Holmes. You are staying here!" he slumped back against his pillow and pouted like a child. I rolled my eyes and then looked back to Irene, waiting to hear her answer.

"I plan to stay here until he is better doctor," she said. "I have made arrangements for lodging for tonight, but I shall return at four thirty tomorrow to oversee his recovery."

"Thank you Irene," I said. She nodded and then walked over to Holmes. He turned away from her, still frustrated with our plans to keep him inside while I went to have all the fun, but she gave him a kiss on the cheek and then was off.

I looked back at Holmes. He was facing forward again and lost in thought. I knew he would not stay angry for long, his ever moving mind did not allow him to hold grudges. Instead of anger, I saw worry in his eyes when he looked at me.

"There was one more thing, Watson. One last piece of information I uncovered before I was shot." I nodded for him to continue; anything he had to say would be important for me to know on my excursion the next day.

"Officer Dodds did not pull this man over simply for driving recklessly, although I'm sure he was," he said. He paused for a moment and then looked me dead in the eyes. "He pulled him over because he knew the man had been assaulting people. And our criminal knew that he knew it. So he shot Dodds. And then when he learned I was pursuing him, he shot me." Again he paused, but I failed to see what he was getting at. Holmes sighed. "Don't you understand Watson? It is you who is tailing him now. All I ask is that you are careful tomorrow," he finished. I was startled by this analysis, but did my best not to show it. I should have considered, long before now, my own mortality.

"Don't worry Holmes," I said quietly as he drifted back to sleep. "He won't even notice me." And why should he, compared to the Great Detective Sherlock Holmes? How was I going to catch this man, who'd evaded even Holmes' attempts? I retired for the night feeling slightly less confident but even more determined than I had been when I first set out. I was going to see this man arrested.

Irene arrived promptly at four thirty the next day. I greeted her at the door and she followed me back up to Holmes' room. The detective was in considerably better condition and was sitting up in bed, skimming through the _Times _newspaper and searching for our next case. Despite the fact that his energy was returning to him at a good pace, I still could not allow Holmes to accompany me on my search today. The three of us exchanged some small talk before getting down to business.

"So, where is it you'll be going Watson?" Holmes tested me.

"I will be on the corner of Charles Lane and Callow Street," I recited, picturing the place in my mind. "It is in the middle of the eight block radius that the culprit has been terrorizing, and I should be able to spot him easily."

"Very good," said Holmes. "Make sure you do not rush up to him when you see him. Pretend to be interested in the small shops on the main road and do not go down the side streets alone," he said. "Where will Lestrade and his men be?"

"They will be at the Market on Callow Street overseeing 'official business'," I replied. He nodded. I checked my pocket watch nervously. It was a quarter to five. "I best be on my way," I said, replacing the watch in my pocket. I picked up my overcoat and checked to be sure my pistol was concealed well in its deep right-hand pocket. Then I departed, once again leaving Holmes in the care of Irene Adler.

I passed by the Market and caught Lestrade's eye. He gave me a curt nod that showed he knew it was time. I only hoped he would be ready. I arrived on Charles and Callow and waited patiently, pretending to be considering the best shop to go to. I waited for half an hour and nothing had happened. I realized how suspicious it would look if the man I was chasing saw me standing about for hours in the same spot so I began to walk up the block, peeking into the little shops that lined Callow Street. There was a street bench and I sat, waiting for my man to drive by. I bought a paper from a solicitor that walked by and opened to the centerfold, pretending to read and peeking over the top. I stayed until seven fifteen, sporadically pacing up and down the street, but there was no sign of the criminal. I went home dejectedly. The Market had already closed and Lestrade and his men had left for Scotland Yard half an hour ago, leaving me to walk home by myself and try to explain to Holmes that he may have been wrong. We could not know for sure of course; there was still another day left.

I turned onto Baker Street and made my way toward the apartment that Holmes and I shared, and what I saw caused my eyes to widen. Leaning against the side of the apartment building was a bicycle. A bicycle with a red front wheel. I rushed up to the door but held myself back from running in. If I was too obvious she would intercept me. I couldn't believe she would do this to Holmes. Irene Adler was working for the criminal!

I opened the front door and hung my overcoat on the coat stand. Quietly, I removed my pistol from its pocket and tucked it in the pocket of my trousers. Then I made my way up the stairs, making sure to hit every step and keep in pace. I walked into Holmes' room and found Adler bent over a sleeping Holmes, taking his temperature. She hadn't heard me come in. I was disinclined to shoot her; Holmes would kill me if I did so, and I could not exactly bring myself to remove a bullet I had fired. Instead, I moved as quickly and quietly as I could on my bad led and came up behind her. Irene was just about to turn around when I slapped a hand over her mouth and held her hands together at the wrists behind her back. She struggled fiercely against me, but I successfully pulled her from the room without disturbing Holmes. I dragged her into the study and threw her, not very gently I will admit, to the floor. She stared up at me in shock and I raced to the desk, pulling a spare set of handcuffs from the top drawer; Holmes had to practice getting himself free after all and usually kept a pair around. Irene stood and made to rush at me, but I caught her and spun her around, tightly securing the cuffs around her wrists.

"What the hell are you doing, Watson?" she screeched. I put a hand over her mouth again. She grumbled and thrashed but I was pleased to find that I was much stronger than she.

"Don't play the victim Irene," I growled. "We both know where your allegiance lies." She stopped struggling and looked up at me in awe. "Oh yes," I said venomously. "I know who you are working for. And if you have ever cared about Holmes at all, you will tell me where I can find your partner and when." She hesitated for a moment and considered my words, her eyes narrowed. "I am going to remove my hand," I said. "If you scream again, I will gag you and leave you here until I find this man, which will take a considerable amount of time since you have told him of my plans." I waited for a second, letting the message sink in, before I uncovered her mouth. She gasped for air but I shook her a bit. I was too impatient to wait and I feared we may be running out of time.

"There is another set of blocks, just like the ones you visited this afternoon," said Irene. "The man's name is Anthony Kingsley. He will be there in an hour. There is usually a group of women walking home from the park tonight, and we planned to separate one of them from the group and rob her."

"What is the street name?" I demanded.

"It is Ledbetter Lane," she said. She was beginning to struggle again. "Let me go Watson!"

"Miss Adler, it is now you who underestimates me," I chuckled. "Do you really think I am naïve enough to remove these handcuffs and let you go on your merry way? Absolutely not," I scoffed. "Not only would you head off Kingsley, but you would escape the inevitable arrest that awaits you," I said.

"What are you talking about?" she asked harshly.

"Why, Irene," I said, "don't you know that you are an accomplice to the murder of Officer Steven Dodds?" She paled and struggled harder.

"Please let me go, Watson," she begged. "Holmes won't like it if I am in jail, you know that." She was trying to play on my emotions, but I simply became angry.

"Why should you care?" I nearly shouted. "You certainly did not consider what Holmes may or may not like when you teamed up with this man, and allowed him to shoot the detective!" I knew she would only escape from the handcuffs and flee if I left Irene to her own devices. Therefore, I thought it only best to knock her out. I dragged her over to a corner of the study and sat her down. Then I picked up an empty vase from the windowsill. She made to stand again and I thumped her over the head with it. The vase did not break, but Irene immediately went down, and I made no move to catch her. I only felt the smallest bit bad for hitting a woman, although I knew I'd most likely feel worse later. Holmes would laugh, and joke about me having a mean streak, but I could not waste time standing about and considering my actions. I moved to the door as swiftly as I could and took one last look back at the now unconscious Irene Adler.

"It seems as though you will finally know what it is like to wake up in handcuffs," I mused. Then I flew down the stairs, only to be met by a very flustered Mary.

"John," she remarked "where are you going at this late hour."

"I'm sorry my dear, but I simply haven't the time to explain at this moment," I said as I struggled clumsily to put on my overcoat. "Would you mind watching Holmes until I get back? I know you don't get on very well with him, but he must not be left unattended. Oh, and if you hear any strange noises from the study, just ignore them." I had one foot out the door. She grabbed my arm and pulled me to face her. Then she kissed me directly on the mouth. She broke away and looked me in the eye.

"Go get the bad guys, John. I will take care of everything here." I grinned and rushed out the door, running to Ledbetter Lane as fast as my legs could carry me.

Despite the fact that I had no idea where Ledbetter Lane was, luck seemed to be on my side that night. On my way up Baker Street, I ran into Inspector Lestrade. He was just coming to check on Holmes and see if there had been any new developments in the case. I frantically explained what Adler had told me, doing my best to keep my overview concise; there was very little time. Fortunately, Lestrade knew exactly where Ledbetter Lane was and led the way. We arrived at ten minutes to the hour and waited on the corner. Time seemed to stand still as we anticipated Kingsley's next attack. Suddenly, a group of young ladies could be spotted coming up the street. I tensed, knowing the hour was at hand. One woman broke off from the group and turned down a side street, waving goodbye to her friends. They said their farewells and continued on past Lestrade and I, saying "Good evening," and "How do you do, gentlemen?" We paid them no mind. As soon as they were gone, Lestrade and I ran down the block and turned the same corner the single woman had ventured onto. She was already on the ground when we saw Kingsley perched over her, grinning maniacally.

"Halt!" bellowed Lestrade. "You are under arrest!" Kingsley turned and pulled out his pistol, all the while wearing that look of sheer insanity. He advanced upon me and I grabbed his gun hand, forcing it upward into the sky just as he pulled the trigger. Lestrade knocked his feet from under him and Kingsley went down. As Lestrade made to turn the man over to cuff him, Kingsley reloaded quicker than lightning and pointed the gun at his own head. Lestrade froze, not quite sure of what to do, and Kingsley smiled as he pulled the trigger and ended his days as a criminal. Lestrade stepped back, appalled, and looked at me.

"What the bloody hell do you think that was all about?" he asked weakly. I helped up the fallen lady and looked at Lestrade.

"Perhaps, Lestrade, a life in prison is no life at all."

Upon arriving home, I wanted nothing more than to go to bed. It was either ridiculously late at night or painfully early in the morning; either way, no one in their right mind should have been awake at that hour. I denied my body this rest however and went directly to Holmes' room. He was sitting up in bed and laughing at some great joke. I was relieved to find that Mary was laughing too.

"Eventful night?" I asked.

"John!" Mary exclaimed. "Holmes has told me everything. Did you catch the man who assaulted him?" Holmes waited patiently for my answer.

"We nearly got him," I said. Holmes groaned and Mary sighed.

"What happened?" Holmes asked.

"Lestrade was just about to take him, Anthony Kingsley that is, into custody. But he managed to escape for the last time." Holmes looked at me quizzically. "He shot himself." I said. There was a moment of stunned silence. Then Holmes laughed out loud. Mary looked disgusted.

"Well as morbid as that is, my dear Watson, you've done it! You solved the case!" he exclaimed. "I knew you had to have picked up some deduction skills on our many expeditions. Now tell me," he said looking around the room, "not that I minded having your lovely fiancé keep me company, but where is Irene?" I slapped the palm of my hand to my forehead.

"I completely forgot!" I groaned. I opened the door connecting Holmes' room to the study and was surprised to find the adjacent room completely empty. The window overlooking Baker Street had been left wide open. In the corner where I'd left Irene were the handcuffs and a folded piece of paper. I walked over and opened the note. It read:

_My dear Watson,_

_ Apparently, you are a little more naïve than you have led yourself to think. That strike over the head with your vase couldn't have knocked out a common house cat; I suggest you never take up boxing. It was easy enough to fake a faint, I am just pleased that you did not notice me brace my fall; I suppose you were more focused on other things. I saw Mary come in. She seems lovely, congratulations on your engagement. I trust that there are no hard feelings between us, and I hope you will give my regards to Sherlock for me when he wakes._

_ Sincerely,_

_ Irene Adler_

I rushed back into the detective's room.

"Holmes," I exclaimed, "you are never going to believe-"

"That Irene has escaped after you failed to contain her in the study?" he finished. I looked at him in awe. "I do believe it, my good doctor. In fact, I was expecting it. When I asked where Irene was, I was simply asking where you had decided to put her."

"But Holmes, if you knew she was involved in the case, why did you not try to stop her from fleeing?" I asked.

"Because Watson," he explained, looking out the bedroom window, "it is her job to run, and it is my job to chase her." I considered this for a moment and then sighed, deciding to let the matter drop. There would be much more to discuss in the morning.

It was the fourth day of June at precisely eleven forty-five at night, and I, Dr. John Watson, had just solved my first case.


End file.
